Object of Desire
by Cybra
Summary: Someone has their eye on a certain football-headed boy...


Object of Desire

By Cybra

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A/N: Don't even ask me whose POV this is. Frankly, I don't have a clue. It could be anyone, female or male for all I know. If this is Helga, then she's more Arnold-obsessed than I originally thought.

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Special Note: The idea that football-headed people are a minority called "Odds" belongs to me. They are further grouped by eye color and hair color to further subdivide themselves. (According to my own twisted universe, Odds at one point were bred for different reasons. That will be explained at a later date.) Arnold, due to his green eyes and blond hair, would be referred to as a "Green-Eyed Gold". Simple, ne?

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Disclaimer: Hey Arnold! ain't mine. The little football-headed love god of the series belongs to the powerful Craig Bartlett.

If this little Green-Eyed Gold is an example of the beauty of the Odd species, then I know where Tolkien drew inspiration for his Elves.

God in Heaven, he's beautiful. Not handsome. _Beautiful._

The way the sun kisses his soft, creamy skin and runs its fingers of light through those golden locks makes my heart burn with envy. His emerald green eyes glitter with inner light and peace. His face is ageless; I know it shall be forever youthful. I have seen pictures of him when he was younger, and he looks almost exactly like he did then. I have even heard him comment with that smooth laugh of his about how people like him are doomed to look like themselves their entire lives.

And at night…

When the moonlight washes over him, I cannot help but gape in awe. His ethereal beauty holds me breathless for hours as he sits on the edge of his roof, tilting his head upward towards the moon, eyes closed. He never exposes his neck like this to anyone, well aware of how vulnerable doing so is. One could easily strike at that slender neck that supports that gracefully curved head.

Everything about him is graceful, from his head to his toes. He doesn't walk, he glides through the crowds. He moves unworried, unhurried, through the masses. His time isn't a moment like those other pitiful souls; his time is forever.

__

He doesn't need the cosmetics these vain others buy to keep their looks. _He_ doesn't need to rush around. _He_ doesn't need a watch to tell him when he needs to be somewhere. _He_ doesn't need to put on a mask in order to be loved. He needs only to exist, and admirers will watch him.

Oh, I've seen others eye him. Their eyes light on his features, though he doesn't seem to notice. They gaze at him, some hungrily, some jealously, almost all full of desire, but he notices these stares not. He meets their gaze with a serene look, making them lower their eyes with shame for thinking he could ever belong to them.

I've watched him dance both fast and slow, forcing my heart to pound with jealousy and desire as he easily switched partners in mid-dance. He can dance the harder steps with not a care in the world, a smile on his face and a ringing laugh as he becomes caught up in the music. Oh, and the dance of life he dances equally well, flowing through every day with the grace he possesses on the dance floor, making those others with their clumsier steps green with envy.

He has slipped through the fingers of many. Occasionally, a pretty little thing will catch his eye and manage to capture his heart, but in time he slips through the bonds that surround him. He is nothing but a prize to them, and he is no one's prize. It angers me to no end when I watch someone eye him as if he were a pretty bauble to add to their collection even though I, too, sometimes feel the need to grasp him in my arms and take him as my own as if he were simply a jewel.

But he's so much more…

To most who don't know him, he is a frail thing. I have felt his touch, and his hand upon my arm has always been feather-light, making me ache with desire. His arms are thin, and he stands at least a good head shorter than most of the others his age.

Yet his small and seemingly frail form belies the steel hidden within. His muscles are far stronger than they appear, and I believe that any gods out there would think twice before angering him for fear of his wrath. His will is stronger than his muscle, so strong that I find nothing to compare it to. Those same gods would most likely fall to their knees to obey him if they ever stood in his presence.

I have seen first-hand the power of his will coupled with his determination many, many times. There are days when it seems that no force in the universe could ever oppose him. I personally would bend over backwards to change the world to suit his desires if it would bring him closer to me.

Despite his power over myself and others, he remains content with the shadows, preferring to stay out of the limelight whenever possible.

As if he could ever remain out of the spotlight. The sun and moon always reserve their best rays for him, a silent competition between the two celestial orbs to prove which is more fit to gaze upon his form. The birds sing their sweetest tunes only for him. Animals, even the most skittish creatures, approach him openly, unafraid of him.

And his voice…

It isn't simply the voice of a smooth tenor. No, his voice is so much more. It floats upon the breeze to grace the ears of us unworthy ones. A word is its own melody in the overall song of his speech. When he sings, the angels themselves stoop to listen, entranced.

And I, too, am held forever enraptured.

His mood alone can keep me entranced. His happiness makes the sun shine a little brighter. His pure joy – Oh, how rarely I see that sight! – makes the world a bit more pleasant to live in. But his sorrows, and he holds far too many, make the skies themselves cry for him. He sheds not a tear when he knows someone watches, but the rain will fall to disguise his tears if he needs it to. How I've longed to kiss those painful-yet-beautiful crystalline tears away!

I've had the pleasure of feeling his touch and gazing upon his beauty…even if he didn't know I was watching him at the time. I've caught his delicious scent on the wind enough times to make my heart pound. I've listened to his voice enough times to know every nuance of his speech patterns.

He's the ultimate object of desire: so beautiful, so caring…

…and he's going to be so mine.


End file.
